Four
Rural Virginia
Valeran Academy, the refuge of precocious teenage offenders, was concealed in the stygian haze of the Blue Ridge Mountains—perplexingly,
to Julian’s mind. If the aim was truly just to keep them isolated from general society, why call it a school at all? Why bother
with reassuring pretensions?
Not that Julian wasn’t grateful. He had passed several weeks in nauseated, shuddering anxiety, a horror show of orange jumpsuits
and toilet wine playing out behind his eyelids. He had considered hiring a prison consultant, someone who would advise him
on the intricacies of bunk etiquette, strip searches, and how to avoid being assaulted in the mess hall.
That was before he remembered that he was rich. Rich people didn’t go to supermax; they went to sparklingly landscaped minimum-security
facilities where they took business classes and played pickleball. A month ago, Julian wouldn’t have been able to articulate
the differences. Now he considered himself a casual expert on the various potential fates awaiting a disgraced nineteen-year-old
former mayor nabbed for taking bribes.
The offer had come by mail: inside, a single piece of paper, with the Valeran Academy seal at the top. In any other circumstance
Julian might have mistaken it for a college acceptance letter. But unlike admission to Harvard, this had not been guaranteed
to Julian at birth. He didn’t need to glance at Landon’s article to know that he was the only Joyce-Young to be offered a
place at Valeran.
A relief, like that first heady sip of scotch.
His mother had burst into tears. His father had snatched the paper from Julian’s hand and read it over once, brow furrowing, then remarked that at least there was no need to hire a lawyer.
If he accepted the offer, all charges against him would be dropped.
No prison sentence, no humiliating, drawn-out public trial.
With gratitude, Julian had written back. He signed his name at the bottom using his monogrammed Montblanc, and that was that. Four years
at Valeran to atone for his crimes. It was a lighter sentence than he had any reason to hope for, especially given the media
circus that had already commenced. Released on bail, he hadn’t been able to leave his family’s town house in Back Bay without
paparazzi darting out from behind the trees and bushes like deranged squirrels, cameras flashing.
But it wasn’t just him they were after; Julian could have survived that. One morning his mother had tried to leave with Olivia
for her ballet recital, and the paparazzi had descended on them, swarming the car with such aggressive persistence that his
mother had gotten flustered, dropped her keys, and then grown too frightened for the entire enterprise. She grabbed Olivia
and ran with her back into the house, both of them by that point in tears. Olivia had fled into her room, still wearing her
leotard, sobbing. And his mother had collapsed on the steps in the foyer, head in her hands, shoulders shaking.
“Mom,” Julian said—quietly, helplessly. “Mom, I’m sorry . . .”
She raised her head just slightly to look at him. Her pale green eyes, so like Julian’s own, were glossy with unshed tears.
“I don’t want to lose you,” she whispered. “I can’t.”
And then she, too, had fled to her bedroom, but not before snatching an ice-cold bottle of Chardonnay from the kitchen.
Four years, Julian had to remind himself. Four years and he would be home again. He could survive that. It was better than the alternative.
Better than his mother really losing him, forever.
Yet by the time he approached Valeran, Julian found his gratitude supremely tested. He had managed to endure the bus ride (solitary, sweaty), and the accompanying indignities, including the driver,
who had tossed his suitcase unceremoniously onto the grass and left Julian to pick it up himself. He even managed to remain
silent as the guard at the entrance shoved up the sleeve of his shirt, snapping off the buttons, and clasped a gold band around
his wrist.
When the guard released him, Julian held out his arm to examine the band. Fixed on a tight chain was a plate engraved with
his name.
JOYCE-YOUNG, JULIAN, III
3.29.2018
Not handcuffs, but close enough to make him bristle. Without uttering a word, the guard waved him through the gate.
He’d had very little in the way of expectations when arriving at Valeran. Despite his best efforts, Julian had been unable
to find anything about the academy online, save for a vague reference in a newspaper clipping from 1977 alluding to the Frost-Kennan
Amphitheater, which had been endowed that same year in the diplomat’s name. Another article, from 1986, did not name Valeran
directly but ambiguously referenced a “military school for troubled youth in the Blue Ridge Mountains,” comparing it to DC’s
prestigious National War College.
And so Julian was surprised by its grandeur. The main building was a sprawling neoclassical structure, pale gray stone and
black-veined marble, with Ionic columns upholding a large rotunda that framed an enormous courtyard. The mist of the mountains
hung low, partially obscuring the cupolas and the outer buildings and giving the campus—he could give in to calling it that—a
cryptic feel. Otherwise, it would have seemed reassuringly Ivy League.
What diminished the grandeur were the sixteen-foot-high walls, so sheer as to be impossible to scale and topped with coils of razor wire.
And the armed guards, of course—including the one who prodded Julian none too gently with his rifle, urging him down the sleek brick path and toward the main hall.
The lobby of the building improved upon the exterior: black-and-white-tiled marble floors, oaken furnishings that gleamed
in the half-light, and an enormous double staircase. Velvet drapes adorned broad bay windows that looked out into the courtyard.
Students milled around in neatly pressed uniforms of navy, but they all had an industriousness about them, a head-down, hurried
gait, and not a single one so much as glanced his way.
Mounted above the staircase was Valeran’s crest and, beneath it, words engraved in gold.
The struggle for power is being fought, rather than with deadly weapons, with competitive examinations.
—Hans J. Morgenthau
Before Julian could take any more of it in, the guard prodded him again. “Come on,” he said gruffly. “The headmaster is waiting.”
The note of undisguised sourness in his voice made Julian wonder if the stories about him had somehow penetrated Valeran’s
walls. Despite the fact that his cell phone service had abruptly died somewhere in the rising gloom of the mountains, he wondered
if his reputation preceded him. But surely he couldn’t be the most reprehensible character here. He hadn’t done anything violent. Maybe there was some precocious serial killer who had been benevolently plucked from death row.
Julian was led into an elevator and up to the third floor. The corridors were lined with more modern-looking doors, a rectangular
window fitted into each one. He tried to glimpse what was inside, but the guard marched him past too quickly.
He did manage to see the nameplate outside the door before he was pushed through the threshold.
DR. IVER
The headmaster’s office was furnished in the same dark wood as the rest of the building. An imposing executive desk was piled
with papers in neat stacks, and a number of framed degrees were hung on the far wall. Julian squinted to try to read them.
It reminded him strongly of his father’s office, a thought that occurred to him with a bolt of homesickness and shame.
With a dip of his head, the guard departed at last.
Valeran’s headmaster stared up at him. He was an older man, though he could have been anywhere between fifty and seventy-five;
it was impossible for Julian to tell. His hair was still thick and white as snow. Otherwise, he was so nondescript as to be
almost eerie. Julian couldn’t place the emotion on his face—if any at all.
“Julian Joyce-Young the Third,” Dr. Iver said. “That’s a weighty name.”
Julian said nothing, anticipating a rejoinder.
“You’re a good catch for Valeran.”
“You mean I won’t find anyone else from one of the last great American dynasties here? What a surprise.” Julian wasn’t exactly
trying to provoke Dr. Iver, but he wasn’t trying not to, either. His back still ached from the bus ride and from carrying
his own bag.
He did feel a brief flicker of disappointment when the headmaster’s expression didn’t change. “Sit,” Dr. Iver said.
Julian lowered himself into one of the leather armchairs.
“No, you won’t find anyone as blue-blooded as you,” Dr. Iver went on.
“But you will find plenty of students who make your bank-breaking Exeter education and years of private tutoring seem a waste, who will make you yearn for the days of cozily memorizing Latin conjugations by the fireplace. Valeran is for soldiers. Your pedigree and that heirloom Rolex on your wrist mean nothing here.”
Instinctually, Julian glanced down at his watch, which was partially concealed beneath the cuff of his shirtsleeve. How had
Dr. Iver even noticed it?
“So allow me to explain how things work,” said Dr. Iver. He folded his hands on the desk, and it was Julian’s turn to scan
him for subtle giveaways. He wore a thin band around his fourth finger. Gold. “You will spend four years learning the finer
points of military strategy, statecraft, tradecraft, and even a bit of tactical combat if you’re feeling adventurous, and
when you graduate, you will find employment in the upper ranks of America’s defense and espionage sectors. You will serve
this country dutifully until your dying days, in anonymity, winning yourself no personal glory or esteem. And that alone will
be sufficient repentance for what you’ve done. Do you understand?”
Julian’s fingers curled around the arm of the chair. He wanted to curse. He wanted to scream. Mostly—humiliatingly—he wanted
his father to walk through the door and deliver him away from here, with a direct deposit into Dr. Iver’s bank account and